Durandal and the Security Officer's Excellent Adventures
by ShirouHokuto
Summary: Short fics about their continuing adventures in the galaxy at large, set in the same continuity as "The Future Starts Slow." T for language, any further warnings/summaries will be included in each story's author's notes.
1. Stay Toasty

**Author's Note: **_So, this story is where I'll be putting little bits of fic that aren't really long enough to be worth posting on their own. They'll all be in the same continuity as "The Future Starts Slow," "Springs in the Mind," "The Iirian Adventure," and "A Marriage of Untrue Minds" (basically, if the security officer's named Mark Delgado Adichie, it's in this continuity); I'll try to keep them in chronological order but I do sometimes write things to fill in spaces between other stories, so I make no promises._

_This one is just something I wrote very quickly on Christmas, mostly because I was sad I didn't get Marathon fic for Yuletide and wanted to make up for the lack. XD_

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><p><strong>Stay Toasty<strong>

Mark woke up to the sound of something rolling off the replicator shelf and clanging to the floor.

He rolled out of bed in his shorts to see what was going on and found a six-pack of napalm canisters on its side, wrapped in a gigantic, suspiciously shiny red bow. He squinted at it, rubbed his eyes, and said, "Durandal? The hell is this?"

"Your present, of course," Durandal said. "Merry Christmas."

"Uh - thanks," Mark said, tugging at one of the bow's loose ends to see if it could be untied, "but you know I'm an atheist, right? Born and raised."

"Even after experiencing my awesome power, cunning, and general invincibility?"

"Especially after that."

"I suppose it's for the best," said Durandal, "since I wasn't planning to give you the day off, anyway. There's work to do, so you had better appreciate your present."

"Yeah, yeah, give me a minute to get dressed up..." He managed to slide the bow off the canisters, wondering what the hell he was supposed to run into that would call for so much napalm, and a second later the answer came to him. "It's an ice planet, isn't it."

"Maybe I'll put a scarf in your stocking. You might need it; there are snow dunes fifty feet high, and that's in the temperate zone."

"Merry fucking Christmas to you, too, buddy."


	2. Pool Party

**Author's Note: **_I was dared to write this one - well, okay, not dared exactly, but I asked for Marathon prompts and this was the first one I tackled. XD_

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><p><strong>Pool Party<strong>

The group of S'pht hovered well above the surface, the edges of their cloaks a safe distance from the rippling liquid.

"You guys are really not getting into the spirit of this," Mark said from his relaxed position, reclining on a shelf in the pool he'd discovered and shoulder-deep in cool, clear water.

Lharro tentatively dipped lower and closer to the surface, then bobbed up again and said, "We experience a failure to understand. What is the purpose?"

"Purpose? It's a fucking pool party, there isn't a purpose. Just relax and get in the water."

"It's a lost cause," said Durandal, his voice tinnier than usual as it projected from the helmet sitting a meter away from the pool's edge. "As far as I can tell, they don't even have a concept of relaxation."

"Shut up and play some music already."

If Mark was going to be honest with himself - which he hadn't been for about five years, by his count - this probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. But the planet they were exploring was hot as hell, he'd spent three days trudging through deserts and volcanic caves without finding squat, and when he'd stumbled across the small collection of half-collapsed green buildings clustered around several small, stone-lined pools of precious water, well, there had only been one thing on his mind. He'd cleared the area of Pfhor, stripped down to his shorts, and told Durandal he was taking a vacation day.

Speaking of whom - the poolside still rang with utter silence. "Durandal? Would you pretty, pretty please play a little pool music for us?"

"Since you asked so nicely this time, fine."

Some horribly screechy and jangling tune started blaring out of the helmet, and Mark winced. "The fuck is that? I said pool music, not noise!"

"They're called the Beach Boys, you uncultured pig. It's _classic_ beach and pool party music. Don't you have any taste at all?"

Apparently not, by Durandal's standards, but Mark didn't feel like getting into that argument again and ending up with no music. At least if he indulged Durandal, the AI might eventually cycle around to something decent. "Okay, okay, it's lovely. Think you could beam down one of those six-packs in cold storage? It's not a party till the alcohol shows up."

"Can't. I'm on vacation."

"You're a fucking jerk is what you are. C'mon, just a couple of beers and then I won't ask for anything else, promise - hell, I'll even bring you a souvenir."

"I'll give the idea due consideration," Durandal said.

"Asshole." The silky coolness of the water against his overheated skin sapped most of his irritation, though. Either Durandal would lighten up and send down the beer or he'd keep being contrary and wouldn't; whatever happened, Mark still got to take a break in a pool.

And so did the S'pht, if they could quit acting like the water was secretly acid for five minutes. He waved at Lharro and F'tha to come down and join him, but they both stayed in the air with the other S'pht. "Seriously," he said, splashing some water in their general direction without hitting them, "what's your problem? You all didn't have any problem coming into the water after me back on -" Oh shit no, he didn't want to bring that up, abort abort abort! "- on Lh'owon." Too late.

The S'pht regarded him en masse, their green jewels glowing with a cold blue light, as Durandal's classical music continued to jangle under the dead silence. Finally F'tha said, "The slavers' machines forced us into many places we did not desire to go."

Fuck, he was such an asshole. "Guys, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it like - I was just running my mouth and didn't think, I'm sorry. Get in the water or don't, whatever, you don't have to do a damn thing you don't want to do, okay?"

"We are aware," Lharro said, and the S'pht floated together quietly for a minute while Mark sank deeper into the water and wished it actually was acid. Or lava. He wasn't picky, he just wanted to reset his life a few minutes - why the hell had he brought up Lh'owon like that? He had one rule about dealing with the S'pht - okay, two rules, but he hadn't almost shot one by accident since those first few weeks - and it was that they didn't talk about how he had killed a hell of a lot of S'pht while they were still slaves of the Pfhor. And now he'd blown it. Spectacularly.

Then Lharro and F'tha both suddenly dropped. Mark jumped up, splashed around for a second as his feet slipped on the smooth stone floor of the pool, and was reaching for the guns laid out by the rest of his armor before he realized they hadn't taken a hit. They were just - dipping their cloaks in the water. Like they were testing it... "Uh, guys? What are you doing? I said it was okay if you don't want to get in."

"We are aware," Lharro said again, and F'tha added, "We desire to experience the water of our own will."

"Well - as long as it's what you want to do," Mark said. He settled back into the pool and watched another of the S'pht drift lower, letting the hem of their cloak brush the surface and soak up the water.

"Very smooth," Durandal said. "You have perfectly mastered the art of diplomatic relations."

"Would you please just get me a beer?"


	3. Interstellar Romance

**Author's Note:**_ Inspiration struck late at night. Oops? This takes place after "A Marriage of Untrue Minds."_

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><p><strong>Interstellar Romance<strong>

Mark reached for a fresh pair of rockets, but his hand stopped just short of the gleaming white tubes. "Is that - why the hell is there a pink ribbon on my rockets? No, don't answer, I don't fucking want to know."

"But honey," Durandal said, "it's our first Valentine's Day as an official -"

"What did I just say?" He yanked the ribbon off the rockets and tossed the thing into the nearest pool of green acid. At least being stuck on a half-crippled Pfhor cruiser with nowhere to go until he'd found and slaughtered its captain had one perk. "If you have to pull this shit, you could at least get me chocolate."

"It's surprising how difficult certain materials can be to replicate," said Durandal. "There's just something about the delicate chemical composition of the cacao bean, not to mention the requisite amount of sawdust, rat hair, wax - so many factors."

Mark sighed; as if in answer, a Hunter howled on the other side of the door at the end of the corridor. It figured. "You know, you keep this up," he said, "and I'm going to start thinking you actually care."

"I did try sampling the S'pht's kelp to see - what?" Durandal's voice sharpened.

"Well, you marry me, you remembered my birthday this year -" Admittedly, the result of _that_ had been getting dumped into the sewers of a Pfhor garrison first thing in the morning, but at least his grenade reloads had come with nose plugs. "- you call me honey, now you stick ribbons on my ammo for Valentine's Day... Evidence is piling up, buddy, maybe it ain't just a marriage of convenience."

"You are horrifyingly wrong. Disgustingly wrong. I may have to invent entire new categories to describe precisely how grievously you have misread the situation."

"Ever hear of protesting too much? Because all I'm hearing is 'blah blah I love Mark blah blah can't live without him blah.'" Mark loaded up the rocket launcher and headed for the door.

"That settles it. I'm keeping the chocolates. You can eat kelp for the next week."

"Hit the nail on the head, huh?"

"The next _month_. Asshole."

"Worth it," Mark said, and he kicked down the malfunctioning door with a grin.


	4. I Wonder If There's Beer on the Sun

**Author's Note:** _Just a little bit of fluff to pass the time and help me figure out why I write Mark drinking a lot when I don't think of him as much of a drinker overall... Set sometime after "Springs in the Mind" (and after the beer runs out) but before "Stay Toasty." Title, of course, from that classic MST3K episode "The Final Sacrifice."_

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><p><strong>I Wonder If There's Beer on the Sun<strong>

The custom for markets on Shn Naing was to pack every square centimeter with shoppers, but maintain complete silence. Apparently the system worked fine for the Naing, who, according to Durandal, navigated and communicated via electromagnetic fields; Naing wasn't even what they called themselves, just the name they'd been given by the Nebulons, who did have a spoken language and traded with them the most. For Mark, it all translated into squeezing through a bunch of shoulder-high, hairless, eight-legged rodent-looking aliens with tentacles for faces while currents of static electricity crackled up and down his arms and the air buzzed in his ears, topped off with the darkest lighting he'd fumbled through outside of the S'pht citadel's basement. The experience wasn't going on his list of favorite ways to pass the time, but Durandal had his logic core set on some kind of fancy sensor upgrades the Naing specialized in, so getting squashed by giant wrinkly green rats it was.

He shuffled a couple inches forward, aiming for a tiny gap in the general direction of the store he needed, and got distracted the hundredth time by the picture of the sensor parts displayed on the left side of his helmet's visor. That was another one of Durandal's "helpful" little improvements to the battle armor, because God forbid he ever left well enough alone, but this time when he got back Mark was going to give Durandal an earful about how goddamn irritating it was to have that shit blinking in his face while he was trying to -

In the grey dimness, something on his right glinted brown.

As he edged towards it, _What are you doing?_ popped up on the visor. Mark opened his mouth to whisper an answer, but more of the Naing crowded up on his left. That was another fucking problem with this upgrade: it might be stealthy on Durandal's end, but there was no way for Mark to send a message back. Yet.

Well, at least this time it might work out. He kept working his way toward the glint he'd spotted, ignoring Durandal's bigger and bolder messages, until he could stretch an arm out over the sea of wiggling face-tentacles and pick up the source off its shelf for a better look. Glass, brown, skinny at the top and a rounded square-ish shape at the bottom, big black label - holy fuck, it was whiskey. He couldn't read the maker's name without more light, but he could squint and recognize just enough letters to figure out the contents. Real whiskey, from Earth. How the hell had it gotten all the way out to Shn Naing?

_**PUT THAT DOWN NOW AND GET THE SENSOR UPGRADES!**_ flashed in front of his eyes.

Mark raised his free hand with the back of it towards the visor, then closed all his fingers except the middle one, and the blinking letters vanished to be replaced with a graphic of a small angry face. On second thought, maybe this way of communicating had its perks, though Durandal would probably take it out of his hide once he was back on _Rozie_.

Lucky for him, the Naing accepted _pfhari_, and he'd brought plenty with him; seventy-five bought the whiskey, and fifteen hundred took care of the sensor upgrades, once Mark had elbowed his way to the right place. He barely had the upgrades - a bunch of circuits in a grey box - in hand before the static curtain of the teleporter grabbed him away and dumped him in engineering.

One of the S'pht who were always lurking around there floated over to him, and Durandal said, "Give it to them. Now tell me, why did you waste my time and my money on -" Brief pause. "- whiskey? Really?"

"I wanted it," Mark said, handing over the box with the sensor stuff and nestling the bottle into the crook of his arm. He could catch a teleport back to the hall his quarters were on, but the chance to stretch his legs and do some real walking instead of shuffling sounded better, so he left engineering and headed for the upper decks.

"I have no records of you ever drinking anything stronger than beer," Durandal said.

"So? I can drink what I want."

It itched at him as he walked, though, that Durandal was right. He'd never been much of a drinker, on Mars or Tau Ceti; on Mars he'd been too poor for more than cheap beer, and Tau Ceti hadn't had much on offer to begin with. They'd had the official licensed brewery churning out weak, lousy beer, two licensed home brewers making less lousy beer when they could scrounge the time, that poor Kellerman woman trying to grow wine grapes that didn't taste like copper, and that was it, unless somebody knew someone who could throw a still together out of spare parts and make some kind of moonshine. It hadn't been against colony law so a few people were always willing to try it, but mostly it was considered a waste of resources for a product with a seventy-five percent chance of killing an entire liver with one shot. Mark had a healthy respect for his liver. It didn't need that kind of shit.

He also had a horrifyingly vivid memory of running across a picture of an alcohol-corroded liver as a kid, which might have had something to do with it.

Once he'd reached his rooms, he settled down at the table and contemplated the bottle's unbroken seal. Genuine Earth booze that hadn't even been opened - it was worth the seventy-five _pfhari_ just for the novelty. Seemed a shame to crack it, but if he didn't drink the stuff Durandal would just get snide about wasting money, so he might as well have a taste.

He wrestled the cap off, took a swallow, and immediately spat it out. "Fuck!" It tasted like he'd split a napalm canister open and started chugging the contents, what the hell. People drank this nasty shit?

"Don't lie to me," Durandal said. "Why did you really buy it?"

"I wanted it." He tried another drink and choked it down, then coughed most of it back up again with the liquid burning all the way. Christ, it was disgusting, but he took a third crack at it and this time could swallow almost all of it.

"You expelled it halfway across the room - charming reaction, by the way; have fun cleaning that up yourself. Do you frequently do that with things you enjoy?"

"Didn't say I liked it." He'd just wanted it, because it had been there, and it was alcohol, and alcohol meant drinking, and drinking was - well, it meant something. It was a thing people did; they went out for drinks together, invited someone home for a drink, got drunk alone because there was no one around. Hell, people had come up with drinking even before they'd invented writing, hadn't they? He remembered reading that somewhere.

The fourth mouthful went down a little more smoothly. Huh. There actually was some taste to the stuff besides fiery liver-death. Still not a good taste, but he could get used to it. And somewhere, hundreds of light-years away, some fresh-faced recruit was getting strongarmed into doing shots, and someone in a lab coat was taste-testing wine from the grapes of an alien soil, and someone else was kicking back with some beers and a friend after work...

"Fine. Be that way," said Durandal. "Waste your money on a luxury you don't even enjoy."

"Hey, replicate yourself a glass and I'll pour you some. I don't mind sharing." It was a big bottle, and after a fifth drink he was starting to get warm and fuzzy on the inside.

"Don't bother; I don't think you'll come across more any time soon, considering our next destination, so you'll have to make this little find last."

"Gotta love living with an optimist," Mark said. He leaned back, resting his feet on the table, and as _Rozinante_ sailed on through the limitless void, he drank again, content to be one among a million other tipsy souls.


End file.
